Twenty-something years old and I still cut my knuckles on the cheese grater.
After an expletive and an exclamation mark, I think, "My God, when will I learn?" But then the blood rushes to the newly formed split in my skin and — at least for a second, maybe longer, who's timing? — it's beautiful. A singular drop of blood, so round and fresh and that complex color of crimson that makes you wonder how long it had been rushing in and out of your heart, doing the hard work for you.
So I stop, always scolding myself for scolding myself. Maybe I'll never stop nicking my knuckles. (Solution: Grate slower. Maybe even grate less. I am from Wisconsin though, so leave my cheese be.) But that's okay, right? Each little cheese grater incident has heeled; no scars have formed, no innocent bystanders have been injured.
Sometimes it's nice to nod in acknowledgement towards the little reminders of yes, yes, I'm alive, here's my flesh, look how vulnerable it is to sharp objects, but look closer at how resilient it is to recovery.
So here, take some Parmesan.